by Vivi Paige
“It’ll be fine.” I shifted in the passenger’s seat so I could reach for him. I laid my hand on his forearm and smiled. He barely noticed. His undivided attention remained on the shadowy alleyway, the tall, decrepit buildings on either side of it casting the entire place into darkness. “This is New Jersey, not Russia.”
“Except the Russians are here,” he muttered under his breath. Somehow, he avoided clipping the SUV mirrors as he turned the corner, the alleyway opening into the expansive grounds of a shipping dock. Towers of stacked containers rose around us like flowers from the industrial age and, in the distance, I heard the whir of a container crane as something was moved onto a ship.
“Can you see them?” I narrowed my eyes as I scanned my surroundings. There were only a few sodium lamps mounted around this place, their orange glow casting an eerie feel on the scenario.
There was no sign of the Bratva goons, though.
“Maybe they have rescheduled,” Smee offered, his words coming out as hopeful. “We might have missed their message and—”
“There they are,” I cut him short, watching as a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. The man had hard Slavic features, which were accentuated by his buzz cut, and he wore a black tracksuit with white stripes. His dead eyes were set on the SUV, and Smee straightened his back as he swallowed hard.
“All right,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. He grabbed his piece from the glove compartment and put it in his belt. “Let’s get it done.”
“You’re a sweetie,” I told the old man, tapping my fingers against his forearm again. “But I think it’s best you hang back. These Bratva guys are suspicious to the point of being paranoid. It’s better if I go alone.”
“Alone?” His pitch rose suddenly, eyes widening into plates. “We’re talking about the Olaf tribe here. They’re Bratva mercenaries, and word on the street is they all used to be Spetnaz. They aren’t just—”
“I know about the Olafs,” I cut him short again as I opened the door on my side and slid out from my seat. “I got this, Smee. Don’t worry.” I slammed the door shut, giving him no time to protest. Exhaling sharply, I gave the Bratva goon an acknowledging nod. My heels clicked against the concrete as I moved toward him, and my shadow grew into a giant-sized version of me as I stepped in front of the SUV headlights.
“Hey, devushka,” the man said, tilting his chin at me. “I check if you bring gun.”
“I didn’t bring any—”
“I check,” he repeated, his Russian accent so thick it was almost a miracle I could understand him. Sighing, I raised my arms and waited as the man patted the sides of my body. I looked up at the night sky as he did it, half-expecting to feel one hand wandering to my backside, but that didn’t happen. Even though he didn’t seem to be more than a tracksuit-wearing goon, at least he was professional enough not to grope me. “I take you to boss now.”
Without a word more, he spun on his heels and ambled down the gap between two containers. He led me into a walkway, and then into a container that had been repurposed into an administrative office. The moment I was inside, the goon stepped out and closed the door behind him.
I straightened my back as I faced the three Russians in front of me. Two stood beside the desk, but the largest of them sat behind it. He was at least a head taller than the others, and his clean-shaven dome reflected the glow from the overhead lights. His chin jutted out as if he were a cartoonish Soviet commando, and his jaw seemed strong enough to chew through metal.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Ms. Barrie,” he said in almost perfect English with only a thin layer of an accent touching his words. His leather chair creaked as he leaned back, and he folded his meaty hands over the desk’s surface. A Rolex sat on his right wrist, the hands ticking so loudly that, instead of a watch, it sounded like he wore a ticking time bomb. “It’s a shame your boss couldn’t make it, though. I was looking forward to seeing him.”
“Unfortunately, he was held back with other matters,” I assured him, even though it was a lie. Despite Hook’s bravado and fearless persona, he had never felt comfortable around Fyodor Ivanovich, leader of the Olafs. Known as Crocodile by those who feared him—and by the Feds who always failed to capture him—the man sitting in front of me had a fearsome reputation.
The stories about him were as macabre as they came, but his reputation went beyond brutal action. He was also a cunning business operator and wasn’t above stabbing his own partners in the back. In a way, I figured Hook didn’t want Crocodile to become too interested in him, so he’d settled on using me as a proxy.
“No matter,” Crocodile dismissed with a wave of his hand. “There’ll be time for a meeting later.” Opening the lid on a small wooden case, he grabbed a cigar from inside, pausing only to bite the end off with a snap of his teeth before putting it in his mouth. One of the men beside him, a short, barrel-chested guy with a white tank top, immediately produced a metal lighter, the flame lighting his face for a second.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“I know a lot of things, Ms. Barrie.” Ivanovich took a long drag out of his cigar. The tip glowed red for a moment, ash raining down on the papers covering the desk, and a cloud of smoke drifted out from his mouth. He pointed at the empty chair in front of his desk. “Excuse my manners. I should have offered you a seat.”
“Thank you.” I sat, smoothing the front of my dress as I did. The incessant ticking of his wristwatch made the whole situation even more unnerving, and I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. According to the stories I’d heard, Crocodile had the habit of using the wristwatch of the last man he killed. As he silently puffed on his cigar, the smoke drifting up to the ceiling, he gave me ample time to wonder about the Rolex’s previous owner.
“You’re here because of the Mayne brothers,” he finally said, and I noticed a grin appearing on his two subordinates’ faces. “I’ve heard that Peter is becoming a thorn in your boss’s side. I’m not surprised, you know? That boy has always refused to grow up.” One more drag of his cigar and then he expelled the smoke out through his nostrils. “It seems like we’ll have to teach that boy a lesson or two, huh?”
“Well, this isn’t solely about Peter,” I hurried to say, more uncomfortable with each passing second. “The real concern here is the club operated by the Maynes. We want to oust Club Lost from Bloomsbury, but I don’t think any harm needs to come to—”
“I can fit a container with meat hooks,” the barrel-chest man offered, his beady eyes turning to his boss. He had a slight lisp and that, coupled with his thick accent, made him look like a caricature of himself. “We can hang that Peter there for weeks. We’ll feed him just enough so he won’t die, and we can slice pieces off him for as long as we want.”
“Why go to all that trouble?” the man beside him, a lanky Russian with a goatee, asked. “Isn’t he the asshole that wanders the streets with that group of his? I say we grab a couple of cars, track these mudaks down, and then spray them with bullets. Easy enough, and it won’t take weeks.”
“The only thing we need is to get rid of Club Lost,” I insisted, raising my voice loudly enough to capture the three Russians’ attention. “I don’t think torturing or shooting people will be in my employer’s best interests.” It wasn’t exactly the truth—Hook wouldn’t mind getting rid of any of the Mayne brothers in that way, especially if he could lay the blame at the Bratva’s feet—but I simply wouldn’t allow that to come to pass.
To imagine Peter’s lifeless eyes, his breathing becoming ragged as he bled out in the gutter… no, I wouldn’t allow that. Not now, not ever.
“Then we bomb that club of his,” Ivanovich said. “To make sure the Mayne brothers are hurt by it, we wait for the weekend to come when their club is packed…” He snapped his fingers, his grin widening so much I could see all of his smoke-stained teeth. “Of course, we make it look like an accident. Nobody will know.”
It seemed like they weren’t listening to me.
We h
ad gone from murdering a few men to murdering hundreds, and that wasn’t what I had come here to do. I needed solutions for this mess, and all of these plans only made everything worse. Coming here had been a mistake.
When I didn’t say anything, Crocodile leaned back again and tapped the display on his Rolex. “Tick-tock, Ms. Barrie. I’m going to need an answer. As Americans like to say… time is money.”
“I think this was a productive meeting,” I replied and pushed to my feet. “I’m going to bring this to my boss, but we’re still exploring alternatives. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Just remember,” Crocodile said as I walked toward the door. I stopped mid-step and glanced at him over one shoulder. He had an amused smile on his face, the cigar trapped between his teeth. “Tick-tock, Ms. Barrie, tick-fucking-tock.”
Trying to hide how creeped out I was, I gave him a nod.
I left the office as fast as I could and, in the process, almost hit the tracksuited goon on the way out. He shouted something at me in Russian—something I was pretty sure could be translated as “blonde bitch”—but I didn’t pay him any heed. I just made my way back toward the SUV.
“Get us outta here, Smee,” I told him as I slid into my seat. Without saying a word, he turned the engine on and spun the vehicle around. He remained silent until we were out of the shipping docks, and then he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping as relief washed over him.
“Those guys give me the creeps,” he admitted. “How did the meeting go?”
“I think we need to come up with something else,” I replied, not wanting to repeat any of Crocodile’s plans. It all made me sick to my stomach. It’s one thing to host illegal auctions and launder money, but what the Bratva does—and what the Olafs take pleasure in—is a completely different matter.
“But what?” Smee continued, scratching his chin. “You’ll need to think of something, or else Hook is—”
“All he wants is for this Club Lost bullshit to be resolved,” I cut in. “That’s what I need to focus on.” Sighing, I looked out the window as we crossed the bridge into New York, the still surface of the Hudson underneath us.
I needed to figure out a way to ruin Club Lost, and I needed to do it fast. If I didn’t come up with anything, I was pretty sure things were going to get out of hand. And if this truly became a war…
“Wait, slow down,” I cried out, my eyes drawn to a billboard on the side of the road. Smee slammed on the brakes more suddenly than I had expected, and I was projected against my seatbelt. I didn’t care.
“That’s Randy Johnson.” A smile spread across my lips as I took in the billboard. Randy’s face was plastered across it, and it seemed like he had a few dates scheduled for the Garden.
“So?” Smee asked. “He’s not that funny.”
“I don’t care if he’s funny,” I replied, my mind abuzz with all the tabloid stories about Randy Johnson. If there was any truth to those stories, and if he was as crazy as everyone thought, maybe I could use that to my advantage.
Then and there, I knew what I had to do.
I finally had a plan.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ve lost it, Peter.” Patting his back pockets over and over again, Curly looked up at me, his eyes wide. “I just had it in my hands, swear to God! I don’t know where I could have put it. Why does this always happen to me?”
“Curly,” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose, “sometimes I wonder about your purpose here on this Earth.” I reached out and yanked the lanyard hanging around his neck with the VIP pass dangling at the end. “Swear to God, I’m starting to think you don’t lose your head because it’s attached to the rest of your body.”
“Whew,” he breathed out, clutching the pass with obvious relief. He waved it proudly at the bouncer, and me and the Boyz followed after him.
The wood-paneled VIP lounge was as impressive as the cost of our tickets. Plush chairs had been placed all around, and gigantic flat-screens lined the wall. At the front, the lounge opened into one of the best views of the Garden’s arena, and the Boyz went straight there to snag the best seats. I watched them for a moment, their excitement like that of preschool children on a field trip, and shook my head. I didn’t join them. What I was really interested in was at the back.
The shelves behind the wet bar were lined with expensive-looking bottles, the glass reflecting the dim lights of the room, but it only took me a second to locate my target.
“Now that’s more like it.” I grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the lower shelves. I dropped two rocks of ice into a lowball glass and poured a healthy two fingers over them. I hesitated for a moment but then went right ahead and poured two more. “Move over, guys.”
Nibs and Toots pushed their seats aside, and I sank down in one of the chairs. I propped my feet up on the table and took a sip of my good ol’ Turk, the bourbon gliding down my throat like cotton candy.
“Look, it’s about to start,” Curly yelped, leaning forward so he was literally on the edge of his seat. Down below, in the arena, the lights were slowly being turned off, forcing the audience to focus on the black stage. The chatter in the VIP lounge kept on going, though. People only quieted once the first comedian took the stage. We suffered through thirty minutes of that opening set, the audience’s laughter as uneven as the ice in my glass, and I breathed out with relief once Randy Johnson took the stage.
“What is up, New York?” The famed Mr. Johnson, a twig of a man with an unkempt beard and dark rings around his eyes, walked under the glare of the spotlights as if he owned the place. “Clap it up, liberals, ’cause soon enough you’ll be trying to cancel me.” Bright laughter exploded all across the arena, but I just pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Oh, man, this is going to be good,” Curly muttered, clapping his hands so hard I was afraid he was going to break his wrists. Nibs and Toots seemed into it as well, but they hadn’t bought into the performance as eagerly as Curly.
“Man, I miss New York,” Randy continued, walking back and forth across the stage as if he was looking for a missing bag of coke. Even from a distance, I could tell the guy was wired up. His hands moved like sharp daggers as he spoke, and his gaze flew across the crowd so erratically you’d think he was just a random dude who had mistakenly walked into the stage. “I mean, I had to come here and visit. It’s good to visit foreign countries, right? After living in America for so long, it’s good to take a break and see how the rest of the world is living.”
Curly laughed so hard I had to resist the urge to slap the back of his head, and the crowd seemed to share the sentiment. Apparently, they didn’t mind paying for Randy Johnson to shit all over their city. Then again, that was his whole shtick. The man riled people up for a living, and part of his performance involved mocking the pitchfork mobs that insisted on protesting every single one of his shows. The guy thrived on that shit, and he was as much of a maniac on Twitter as he was live.
Now, I didn’t mind the outrageousness—just as long as it was funny.
I mean, this asshole was supposed to be a comedian, right?
“How long are his sets?” I asked Curly, who had been watching Johnson online after we settled on this plan. He was already a fan, and a pretty enthusiastic one at that.
“Two hours or so,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the coked-up comedian on the stage.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, rolling my eyes in exasperation. Would I really have to spend two hours of my life listening to this? All I wanted was to get backstage and into the meet-and-greet. If it hadn’t been for Curly, who really wanted to see the show, I would’ve just arrived at the Garden minutes before the show ended. Sighing, I brought the glass to my lips only to realize it was empty.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” I said to the Boyz and then promptly left my seat and wandered to the bar. Every single seat in the VIP lounge was taken, a big chunk of Manhattan’s elite packed inside the room. I wondered if they had come here to watch the show or to
rub elbows.
After filling up my glass with another dose of bourbon, I leaned against the bar’s counter, wishing for Johnson to hurry the fuck up and wrap it up. He was known to end his sets earlier than had been contracted—presumably so he could start the partying sideshow earlier—and I was hoping the same would happen here. The sooner I convinced the asshole to party it up at the Jolly Roger, the sooner we’d put this stupid club war to rest.
Of course, it sucked that Belle was going to be put in a tough spot, but Randy Johnson beat the alternatives. I preferred to have her deal with a coked-up party animal than with a sociopathic hitman. Granted, Randy was also a sociopath, but at least he hadn’t made a target out of Belle. His goal was simply general mayhem.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I heard a familiar voice say, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Slowly, I turned on my heels and… there she was. “I didn’t think you’d be one of Randy’s fans.”
My fingers tightened around the glass so hard I thought it was going to shatter. She wore a black cocktail dress, the fabric cutting off just an inch above her knees, and my heart tightened as I took in her perfect curves. It seemed like an eternity before I could focus on her face, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders.
“Who said I’m a fan?” I mentally smacked myself so I wouldn’t sound like an awkward asshole. It was harder than I anticipated. I hadn’t been expecting to find Belle here and, although I wasn’t exactly tongue-tied, I wasn’t feeling like a smooth operator either. “What about you? What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know I had to keep you apprised of my every move.” She released a quiet laugh. With a slight smile on her lips, she walked past me and made herself a martini. I leaned against the counter, one elbow propped on top, and watched her. She was good. Maybe that was to be expected. After years of working in a nightclub, I’d be surprised if she couldn’t make a mean cocktail.